They
Say we're all
Just apples on trees.
The best ones are on top,
at the peak. They sit there and
look down hoping one day, someone
will come up and just try to reach. The good ones are always on the top–
hoping
that one day they'll be loved. Offer all themselves, ask not too much.
But it seems that the
lovers don't want
such.

They seem too scared to go ahead and climb.
Make the rotten ones the apple of their eyes. Get hurt and wonder why they've become blind. And the good ones look at all of this and cry.

Asking,
how far am I
up the apple tree,
for it to be so hard to
be picked? How far
must
I fall from the tree,
For love to come
and let me
feel it?